


In The Darkness

by regolithheart



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: ACOFAS spoilers, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23074867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regolithheart/pseuds/regolithheart
Summary: Post-A Court of Frost and Starlight. Cassian and Nesta have come to a silent understanding as they live their lives in the Illyrian mountains, but when Nesta falls ill, Cassian is forced to confront his demons and hers.-----“No,” she rasped. “No.”Cassian tried not to let her completely undo him. He knew she didn’t want to sleep, didn’t want the darkness to envelope her. He had raged so hard when the darkness of the Cauldron took her—split the air with his screams, his cries of protest. It felt like a betrayal now, to bring it upon her lips. But he didn’t know what else to do, how else to help.
Relationships: Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 17
Kudos: 155





	In The Darkness

Cassian knocked his boots against the door frame, grunting as he did so. It had been a long day. A long day of training, of dealing with hostile insubordinates—young and old alike—and to top it off, he’d only heard rumblings of a sickness spreading through the camps late in the afternoon.

That was why it was well past dark when he’d finally landed on the stone threshold of his cabin just north of the Illyrian training grounds.

As soon as he heard the younger males whisper about several of their comrades falling to fever, and nearly had a shouting match with Devlon on why he wasn’t informed earlier, he marched himself into the camps to see how bad it really was.

Mild. This illness was mild.

Thank the Mother.

It was nothing like the fevers that spread like wildfire and could cut an Illyrian camp by half within a week. Although those were rare, Cassian was old enough to have seen first hand how a fever could lay wreckage to a camp aided by close quarters and the refusal for help. A horrible chill had ran down his spine at the thought of it happening again, under his watch.

That was why he made it his mission to visit every tent, every house, to ensure for himself that no one was suffering more than the aches and congestion that came with the turning of the season, when the air was damp and snowfall was sure to come.

He had helped an older female carry pails of water back to her hut and visited a couple of tents that had little ones clinging to their mothers, their noses red and runny. He had dropped to his knees in front of a particularly stubborn boy—even by Illyrian standards—who had refused to heed his mother to go to bed. The little male had only done so when Cassian leveled his gaze on him and gave him a direct order as Lord Commander of the High Lord’s armies and only after promising the boy he could visit the training grounds when he was feeling better. The boy was six-years-old.

When Cassian had shifted to leave, the mother whispered her thank you and tried to press a loaf of bread into his hands, but he had refused. From the looks of the thread-bare linens the boy crawled into, and the too thin face of his little sister, still clinging onto their mother’s hip, Cassian had wished there was more he could do.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow he would bring them wood for their fire and he would write to Rhys to request some much needed supplies. But tonight…tonight he needed a hot bath and if the Mother was merciful at all, he could avoid an argument with _her._

Nesta.

Just the thought of her name made his blood boil, for good or bad, sometimes he couldn’t tell the difference. Couldn’t tell if he wanted to strangle her or straddle her. Although, if he were being perfectly honest with himself, it was the latter. Always the latter. Only that made him want to do the former and either way he’d lose. Had already lost.

* * *

When Cassian opened the door to his home, his muscles instantly tensed. Years of training, of battle-readiness had all of his senses sharpen to a single point.

The house was quiet, but that wasn’t what threw him off. It was the darkness and the stillness that made his wings flare, put him on edge. He slipped a foot past the threshold, placing it gently on the stone floor, the other foot following stealthy behind. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, nothing seemed out of place except the darkness itself.

It had been a battle the first night Nesta was brought to the cabin. She had refused to let him build a fire in the main room’s hearth, muttering something about brutes and flames. Instead, she’d lit a half-dozen candles, enough to read by, and he left it at that. There were plenty of other things they could argue about, had argued about, but he could live with the house being filled with candles while Nesta read.

Cassian crept soundlessly across the living room, towards the wooden ladder that led to the cabin’s loft. That had been the other thing Nesta was adamant about when she had first arrived at the house.

It wasn’t big or fancy, nothing like the townhouse in Velaris. Mor had said it barely counted as a house when he had shown it to his family, but he liked it that way. He didn’t need much. A kitchen to throw some food together, a small living space that doubled as a dining room the few times a family member showed up, a single bedroom, bath, and a loft for the times Azriel needed a place to crash for the night.

When Cassian had offered up his room to Nesta, she had looked at him through narrowed eyes and seethed wordlessly. It got under his skin more than anything that she should refuse something as simple as that, or suspected he had any ulterior motives. No, he would have done it for anyone, save for Az or Rhys, but he knew they’d just roll their eyes at him and taken the couch or the loft, which is exactly what Nesta had done.

She had marched over to the ladder, kicked out her skirts and taken it one rung at a time. Cassian held his breath the entire time and willed himself to stay put—to not rush to her aid—less he was looking to gain a black eye. Still, had he not been a centuries-trained soldier, he wasn’t sure he would have had the strength to stay put, to not rush to her aid. Instead, he had watched as she gracefully swung herself over the railing and he didn’t hear another sound from her until the next morning.

Now, not even the sound of breathing could be heard.

_Where was she?_

As if the house were answering his question, a window further inside rattled against the wind.

A storm was coming.

“Nesta? Nesta are you here?” Cassian called, his feet carrying him to the bedroom.

At first he didn’t see her. The bedroom was even dimmer than the rest of the house due to the drawn curtains, but the sound of rustling sheets and then her scent drifting towards him confirmed she was there.

He opened his mouth, utter confusion and bemusement idling his mind, making it hard to grasp words—any words. But then he heard her teeth chatter, and a painful moan, and he was at the bedside in two long and commanding strides.

“Nesta?”

She was buried deep beneath his covers, her face completely obscure. Cassian pushed away the quilts and furs to find her face—assess the damage. Her eyes were screwed tight, and her arms were wrapped around herself, and when Cassian brushed his fingers against her cheek, he instinctually pulled away.

“Gods, you’re burning up.”

And even in this, when it wasn’t clear whether she had registered his presence or not, she managed to disagree with him.

“I’m so cold.”

“No. You have a fever.” He pulled the bedclothes even further away to touch her arms, her legs. Every inch of her was on fire and her clothes were damp from sweat.

“I’m so cold,” she repeated weakly, painfully. She curled even deeper into herself and reached out to take hold of the covers again. Cassian watched as she grasped at air, and when she couldn’t find anything to take hold of, she gave up, tucked her arm back against her chest and shivered.

Cassian stood up and raked his hand through his hair. Gods it was so dark in that room. He could barely see his own hands.

Nesta moaned.

It was the smallness of the sound that snapped Cassian into action.

“Right. It’s cold. We’re going to make you a fire. That will warm you up.”

Cassian didn’t register the protests as he stacked log upon log into the mouth of the fireplace fives paces from the foot of the bed.

“No…no fire. No.” This time Nesta’s voice strained as she tried to pull herself up.

But it was too late.

The fire ignited in a loud whoosh and when Cassian turned back to her, Nesta was in a panic.

Her head thrashed back and forth as if just un-wishing the fire would make it extinguish itself. She scrambled, trying to push away from the fire, but her legs were caught in the sheets she had attempted to wrap herself in and it was as if she drew strength from the Cauldron itself to scream.

“No, no, no, no, no! They’re dying. They’re all dying. Make it stop. MAKE IT STOP!”

Cassian rushed to her side.

He grab her arms to steady her, positioned his body between her and the fire, but it did nothing to calm her down.

“They’re gone. They’re all gone. All of them are gone, but they won’t stop _dying._ ”

Nesta’s eyes pierced him. Pierced right through him as if she could see through to the fire and beyond that, to the ghosts living within.

“No, it’s alright. It’s alright. No one’s dying.” Cassian raised a hand to cup her face, to pull her gaze onto him so that she could look into his eyes and see the truth.

But she wouldn’t.

As the fire grew bigger and its roar grew louder, Nesta became more frantic. She began scrambling again, pulling away from him, her eyes darting wildly, looking for escape.

Cassian stood up and rushed to the dresser. There was a worn wooden box sitting on top of it and tiny glass bottles clanked together as he rummaged around, looking for a blue bottle with a black stopper. A sleeping tonic, made by Madja herself, that had saved him countless of times when his mind was too frenzied to let his body rest and heal.

He sank on the bed next to her again, wrapping an arm around her, to steady her, ground her.

“Nesta. This will help you sleep. It will help you feel better.”

But still, she would not listen. Her hands darted around the bed, as if she were blindly searching for something. Something to grab, something to hold, something to protect herself with. As her fingers came dangerously close to the daggers strapped to Cassian’s thigh, he tapped his siphons to whisk away the Illyrian armor he was still wearing. Now that he was dressed simply in a loose tunic and trousers, he could feel the heat radiating off Nesta even more.

It was more than just the sweltering body-heat if someone in fever, it was sharper, deadlier, and ready to burn them alive.

She began kicking, clawing at him.

“Nesta, please,” he begged as he held on tight. Begged for the first time since Hybern, but with the same desperation.

Nesta’s eyes swerved everywhere except towards the fire and Cassian’s face. Her hands flexed, forming claws, and the muscles in her back began to tense, almost as if she were getting ready to pounce…or run. He was beginning to think she was in real danger of hurting herself.

Cassian breathed.

“Nesta.” He gave her elbow the most gentle of squeezes. _“Ljubav.”_

Her steel grey eyes shifted and her head titled towards him by a fraction. Despite being so small, the movement was so sudden, so sharp, that it made Cassian’s wings flare behind him. But she was looking at him now. Registering his face, searching.

Her eyes had lost all its blueness and all Cassian could see was a storm rolling, lightening ready to unleash. He clung to her, hoping to keep it from striking. Nesta’s eyebrows knit together, realization slowly coming to her.

“Cassian?”

Her voice was softer, but still rough and raw from the screaming.

“Nesta, you’re sick. You need to drink this. It will make you sleep. It will make you feel better.”

She looked at the bottle in his hand as he brought it closer, letting her see it was harmless. Just a tincture. Just a draught. He was ready to pour the contents into her mouth, but her eyes went wide and wild. And instead of hearing it, he could feel the thunder rippling through her.

She pushed herself away from him hard. She kicked her feet out and thrashed her arms and in the commotion, the tiny bottle of Madja’s tonic flew out of Cassian’s grasp.

“Cauldron be damned!” Cassian cursed as he chased after the bottle.

It bounced off the opposite wall of the room before he could snatch it up. And when he turned back to Nesta, her eyes were frantic again. Her body pressed against the headboard.

“No, no. I won’t go. Don’t make me go under. It’s so dark. I’m so, so cold,” she begged. Pleaded.

Cassian’s heart seized. He didn’t know what to do. The words, those desperate words and the way she thrashed transported him back to Hybern. He was so entirely ill-prepared now as he had been at Hybern’s castle, as he had been on the battlefield.

_Useless._

He had failed to help her, failed to protect her. All those times before, this time now. Will he constantly continue to fail her? Be doomed to be not enough?

Nesta’s mutterings were low now, almost to herself, or to some higher power. Who was she bargaining with? Who was she asking for help? Why wasn’t it him?

As the logs in the fire split and popped, Nesta flinched. Each sound rattling her entire body. Each sound making her push further and further away, as if she could just melt into the wall behind her.

He understood now. The terror in Nesta’s eyes made it so absolutely clear that he cursed himself for not realizing sooner.

He clenched the bottle of tonic in his hands and slowly eased forward. He began taking timid steps towards her, arms splayed out as if to sooth a skittish animal. And that was what she was. All of her sizzling instincts was palpable in the air.

She watched him fearfully. Furs and blankets clutched beneath white knuckles and eyes frantically darting between him, the bottle, the fire, and back again.

“No,” she rasped. “No.”

Cassian tried not to let her completely undo him. He knew she didn’t want to sleep, didn’t want the darkness to envelope her. He had raged so hard when the darkness of the Cauldron took her—split the air with his screams, his cries of protest. It felt like a betrayal now, to bring it upon her lips. But he didn’t know what else to do, how else to help.

_Useless._

He steeled himself. In one quick motion, Cassian had Nesta in his free arm, pulling her close and muttering gently to her. He grasped the bottle hard in his other hand while bringing it up to brush the hair that clung to her face away with his thumb.

“Shh, Nesta. It’s going to be okay.”

Nesta shook her head, once, twice, as if she wanted to believe him, but didn’t. Didn’t trust him. He wasn’t a stranger to that look, he used to revel in it, but now, like so many other things, it felt like a dagger being driven into his heart.

How could she, even now, not believe that he would do anything for her. Do anything to keep her safe and from harm? Do everything in his power to take away her pain. He had laid down his life in front of her, to save her.

As if to rebuke him, the fire popped and hissed.

_But what have you done since then?_

Cassian’s head snapped to the fire. Had there been ghosts hiding in there all along?

As if she’d heard the whispers too, Nesta shivered. Her breathing came in shallow huffs.

Holding onto her, Cassian uncorked the bottle with his thumb and brought it up to her lips. “I need you to take this, it will make you feel better. It will stop the fever.”

“No, no, no. I won’t go under. Don’t make me.”

“You have to.”

“No. I—I—”

_“Please.”_

Cassian tipped the bottle into Nesta’s mouth even as she struggled out of his grasp, but he held on tight, too afraid to let go.

Nesta coughed and sputtered. A mouthful of the amber liquid spilled from her lips, but Cassian had tilted her head back and through her coughs, she managed to swallow half of the bottle.

She continued to kick, continued to push back against him and more than once, her nails scratched at his exposed skin, but he didn’t let go. She let out sobs that racked her body and reverberated through his, but still, he held on tight.

Cassian held her firm, his free hand smoothing her sweat-drenched hair. He brushed away the tears that collected on her lashes when she’d choked down the tonic. He ran a comforting hand down her arm, down her back, to soothe her. Her skin was still on fire and Cassian thought he deserved to burn.

Slowly, her movements eased, her eyes fluttered and became drowsy. Her breaths, while still shallow, evened out, and Cassian let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Thank the Mother.

* * *

Nesta screamed and punched and kicked, but it was useless.

What was the point on kicking and thrashing when there was nothing but void and darkness.

What was the point on screaming until your lungs burned if there was no one to listen.

Still she raged, even when the ice pulled at her, claimed her, clawed at her legs and buried itself under her skin.

Cold.

It was so, so, cold.

Nesta thought she had known coldness. She had lived through bitter winters with nothing but sheer stubbornness to feed on, to keep herself warm. She had let the biting winds freeze her heart over as long as it spared the rest of her body.

But this, this was a different coldness all together. Nothing so brutal, nothing that lashed at your skin and made you shiver. This coldness was ancient, darkness itself. The kind of coldness that crept in slowly—that took hold of you and swallowed even your voice.

She felt the coldness crawl into her throat and settle in her chest.

She tried to pull it out, tried to scratch at it, claw at it and rip it out. But her hands were too brittle now, her long fingers pale and iced over. When she looked down at them, the tips were ice white and cracking away. She clenched her hands to force some heat back into them, but it only made things worse and dark fissures began crawling up her knuckles, her wrists.

This was it. This was the end. She had raged against it. Raged against the Cauldron, raged against life itself, but she had not been strong enough. She could not keep her head up and now she was being dragged down into her misery, into hell.

She stopped kicking, stopped pushing as if trying to tread water. There was nothing to push against. No resistance. There was no weight to her, no direction, nothing but darkness. Yet, she knew she was being pulled down.

The drifting felt like an eternity, like all the years she lived had rewound and played back again only in half-time, so that she could see all her mistakes, her regrets, so many of them, on and on. And still the bottom did not come, and still she was being dragged down.

But she would not be Nesta Archeron if she did not rage one last time.

And so she screwed up her eyes, balled up her ice fists, summoned all of the dying embers inside of her, squeezed the coals until they smoldered and unleashed her scream.

Fire.

Fire was pouring out of her. Out of her eyes and her mouth and the fissures in her hands. Hot and roaring and burning. All she saw was red, the last of her rage, burning and sparkling and licking at her. And then there was no more. She was spent. But the red did not go away.

It coiled around her, tugged at her skirt and at her toes. It danced and pulled at the darkness so that she could feel the loose tendrils of her hair whip around her. It swirled, it condensed, and as she watched it, it began to take shape.

At first the shapes looked like nothing. But then it coiled and rose like smoke and then like a whip snapping, the shapes became sharp and unmistakeable. To anyone but a select few, the shapes would have been nothing but whorls and vines, but she knew those markings. Had stolen glances at them, had memorized them, had ran her fingers along them, but only in her dreams.

Now, at her end, she would reach out and trace those perfect lines one last time. But before she could lay her fingertips on them, they shifted again and twisted into themselves, curling into a ball, getting smaller and smaller.

“No,” she whispered.

As if it had heard her, the orb of red stopped shrinking and started pulsing. It gleamed and caught a light that wasn’t there. No, the light was coming from the sphere itself, all warm and comforting and powerful. A siphon that pulsed with life, pulsed at her.

This time, when she reached out to touch it, a hand materialized and touched her back.

She closed her eyes.

The touch was warm and comfort itself. She had not known it often, but she knew it. Knew it in her blood, in her bones, and knew it in her heart. The heart that had stopped being frozen and was now pounding out a rhythm that could have only been a cadence to his name.

She opened her eyes and looked up, hoping to see him, hoping to see his face. It was still too dark. All she could see was the red glowing siphon and the hand that clung to her, laced with scars, but whole and holding on to her and pulling her up, up, up.

* * *

Cassian was on his knees.

He had been on his knees the whole night keeping vigil over her.

After Netsta’s body had finally succumbed to Madja’s sleeping tonic, Cassian had laid her gently down on his bed, taking care to remove her dress without touching her shift. He had swabbed her body with a clean cloth and cool water to keep her fever at bay.

He had extinguished the fire, lit every single candle he could find so that he could keep watch over her and buried his face in his trembling hands and begged the Mother to not take her away from him.

He watched as her body trembled and her hands clenched fistfuls of bed linens. He washed away the sweat from her brow and brushed away the hair that clung to her face.

More than once he brushed his thumb against the pillow of her lips to make sure she was still breathing.

And he knelt by her side, tucked his hand into hers, and he stayed.

It was almost dawn and Cassian stirred because that was what his body did like clockwork. He blinked away the sleep and felt Nesta squeeze his hand. He looked up.

She began to stir and he sat up, perched on the edge of the bed, their clasped hands in his lap because her grip was getting stronger, more sure.

Her eyes fluttered open and she squinted, adjusting to the light.

Cassian watched as Nesta looked around the room. He could see it on her face that she was counting the candles that adorned every single surface, saw that her face became soft, that she stopped counting.

“Nesta,” he whispered, bringing his free hand to her face.

Her gaze finally fell on him and he could see the blueness in her eyes. The storm had passed. She was looking at him— _him_ —for the first time in a very long time.

“Cassian,” Nesta rasped.

His heart twanged at the sound of his name on her hips.

She brought up her free hand to brush away a curl that had caught against his lashes. He leaned closer to let her.

When her hand settled against his cheek, he was glad he was sitting down because his knees would have given out.

Her eyes were soft and her touch was tender.

“You were there. You pulled me out. You stayed.”

Cassian leaned into her hand, turned his face so that he could brush his lips against her wrist and feel her pulse, feel her heart.

“In this life and in the next, Nesta. Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first offering to the ACoTaR and Nessian fandom, please be gentle.


End file.
